


Echoes

by sian22



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: A secret shared, Children never want to stay up late-hah, Curiosity, Echoes of family passing through the years, Eowyn and Faramir parenting, Finduilas as a young mother, Finduilas is curious about her grandmother, Gen, Lieutenant Boromir and his little bro, Mettare Eve, The Wave dream, Thorongil and FInduilas's game of wits, Where else would Faramir have naturally gained a love of Quenya poetry?, foresight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 12:29:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17447024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/sian22
Summary: One diary. Three different Mettare Eves. Three generations of the Steward's family. Sometimes a secret wishes to be shared.Written as Annafan's belated Christmas present and for  Teitho Challenge 'Curiosity' where it placed first.





	Echoes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnaFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/gifts).



_T.A. 2980_

"My lady?"

The quiet words were soft and low, pitched to not carry on the chill night air, but still Finduilas started hard. She'd been too engrossed, too certain to be undisturbed, to take much notice of the warm light spilling across the frosted stones and now she had to rush; hide her private jottings below her cloak with more haste than care. The result was most dismaying. A loose page floated free; spun down toward the tall, cloaked figure standing there, toward the black leather of Thorongil's snow flecked boot.

It landed face up. Askew.

_Uinen's mercy_. There could be no illusion he would not see the words.

"I knew it to be snowing but not that the flakes were so very large."

The famous, almost-smile of Gondor's most trusted captain quirked. He bent and callused fingers swiftly plucked the offending sheet before it could get too wet. He held it out, head inclined, grey eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Poetry, Princess?"

Finduilas flushed. It was late. Long past moonrise on Mettare's Eve and Ithil's glow slipped past her hood, touched cheeks just barely stained the colour of a winter rose. Next time she would be more careful and scribe directly on the little diary's smudged and blotted, sturdy pages. A diary was private. Or meant to be (unless one wished it shared) and this was…embarrassing. Highborn ladies of The Steward's court did not adore their husbands. Did not miss them terribly whilst on patrol. Did not begrudge every minute they were kept apart and most certainly did not write them Quenya verse.

' _Excesses of emotion interfere with reason and decorum_.' Lady Hurin's nasal whine each time Finduilas erred and forgot herself, let Dol Amroth's less stuffy manners bleed into her ways, was all too very tiresome. This space, a private courtyard off Merethond's west terrace, felt like a haven amidst the stiff and rigid Minas Tirith whirl. Roses rambled across moss and stone. Dried yellow yarrow gone to seed waved in each brush of wind. Red flame bushes brought a welcome splash of colour.

_I will come to hate white given time,_ she thought, reaching out and delicately snatching the snowy paper's edge.  _White like the stone. And ballgowns. And immaculately pressed kid gloves._

All of it exactly correct and boring to the eye.

Finduilas sighed and the poem quickly vanished below blue velvet. Two years of acquaintance had taught her Thorongil was circumspect in  _everything_. She could, most likely, trust him. But two brief years a bride had taught her one thing above all:

the court was like a hawk. Ever vigilant for prey.

She tried for an uncaring shrug. "A start is all."

Thorongil's lips twitched again. "''Lú' rhymes nicely, but  _Tarwa'_  is the word you want for garden. ' _Ranga'_  means a place."

"Oh." Their mysterious Eagle of the Star read Quenya? And understood its nuances? Where had he received such tutelage? Not Edoras. Or long abandoned Fornost. "You are most helpful, sir," she added, tamping down on the urge to ask. "There are too few here who know the tongue, still fewer how to be discreet."

"I am always happy to aid a Lady in distress," he replied gallantly, for her tone held more than a wisp of melancholy. "Also most sorry to have startled you, but I have come with news." An official posture of spear straight and hands clasped behind the back appeared. "Denethor's lieutenant has just sent word to the Steward they are victorious with little casualty and headed back for home. Four days at an easy pace. I thought you should like to know."

"Truly?!"

Her visitor gravely inclined his head. "On my honour, Princess."

Bless Thorongil's caring heart! The Company had left six days ago bound for Cair Andros and north Anorien. Orcs were strangely bold for wintertime and the garrison undermanned. She had thrust the unwonted tendril of fear into the farther recesses of her mind but it was stubborn. Pushed forth each time her hands were not occupied. "Why that is wonderful news!"

"It is indeed. I thought it might cheer this dark mid-winter night."

Oh, how perceptive was this stranger from the North! Once again, Finduilas had to marvel at the ease with which he understood: the trial of being an exotic species amidst the straight, sober Gondorians; the pang of a heart cut off from home; the restlessness that came from waiting.

It was this instinctive, natural affinity that drew them both together—forged the easy friendship that both pleased and annoyed her family.

Pleased Echthelion. But annoyed Denethor.

"I also hoped to catch a breath of air in a quieter space," he continued, clearing his throat and waving a hand back toward the tall sash doors. Beyond their glass the torches gleamed and a pale forest of white skirts swirled. The dancing would go on until Anor rose again, brought light and life back to the deep shadowed world. His mouth twisted wryly. "I appear to be unconvincing when I cry off with fatigue."

_Appear?!_  The idea of this vital, restless man lacking energy was simply farcical. Finduilas cocked an eyebrow, unable to resist the urge to tease. "The valiant Captain Thorongil overworked by a dance?"

A hand flew instantly to his chest. "'Tis unconvincing?"

"Entirely."

"Then I shall have try a little harder." A black eyebrow quirked. " Perhaps a wheeze or complaint about a gamey leg?"

" _Valar_ , no," she giggled, picturing the bevy of debutantes flocking to his side, "that will only make matters worse. The only quality more irresistible than a man who will not be caught is one who has a wound. They shall want to comfort you."

He shuddered comically. "Oh dear. Exactly not the effect I want."

"Best to not explain at all and remain inscrutable."

"A skill I do excel at." He bowed once more and the great grey cape with its silver star sloughed off its faint skim of snow. "I defer to your superior understanding, lady. I shall be silent as the Street. And leave you to your peace," he added, turning once more to the hall. The snowflakes began to fall again. Light and fine; a shower of perfect little stars just like Varda's handiwork. Finduilas's fingers itched for charcoal and the promise of a new page. The urge to create was strong but now she found she wished more for company.

The night was long and soon she would need to go back inside; play hostess for Echthelion whom she adored and would not disappoint.

"Don't go, Captain. Please." She patted the marble of the bench. "Join me. Or will your hands be cold?"

He halted and held his palms up to catch the flakes. "Never."

That settled things. She slid to one side and he came and sat, straight and solid, but with the coiled and easy grace that made the Court's maidens clamour for his hand. He was a mystery locked inside a riddle inside puzzle.

One she loved to prod to see where the important spaces lay.

She cocked her head and looked up askance. "Sir, I have noted how you leave all the balls just before ladies' choice. I know that your heart lies in the gelid North but you would be less pestered if you admitted so. Show a select few a little favour. They are forced to make do with perfectly hazardous, eager swains like Lord Gelin."

"And that is to be avoided at all costs?!"

She nodded firmly. "He has no sense of timing and two rather large left feet. It must be torturous avoiding his attention. The ladies of the court mope each time you disappear."

Thorongil chuckled low. "They could hardly be disappointed by the offering when your own brother Imrahil graces these storied halls."

" _When_ ," FInduilas snorted, wondering where her maddening, brash and rakehell little brother exactly  _was_. The only hall that Imrahil oft graced these days was a drinking one. Preferably disreputable. Preferably far away. She grimaced wryly. "Merethond is much too large and bright and public. He prefers them dangerous enough to sit facing to the door."

Thorongil paused in raising his hood against the flakes. They were falling faster and fatter. Tiny pillows of wet and white. One settled on his sable lashes and made him grin and shake like a great, brindle coated dog. "But not so dangerous that he need sully his sword too much?"

"Exactly. You know such taverns then?"

"I do." He leaned a little back, smiling softly and clasping a hand about his knee. "My own favourite comes with a most garrulous barkeep who will keep up a running discourse on the sourcing of proper hops even as he blithely bashes a combatant with a chair."

She could not help but laugh. "The North sounds lovely! Nothing staid and white."

"Nothing. Except the fields beneath their winter cloak." He stifled a mighty yawn. "My pardon, my lady. Boring formal balls make me sleepy. I should probably find my bed."

"As should I. But decorum says I must stay so long as the Steward does." ' _Decorum says'_. Her most unfavourite phrase but one that mattered much to her husband. Finduilas brushed at the cool white puddle that had collected in her lap. "I should be in the nursery. Boromir sleeps so fitfully at the moment. He will be up most of the night and nurse will shattered in the morn." She sighed unhappily and bit her lip. "I am afraid I scandalize the court with my attention to my son, but I wish to be with him all I can."

Thorongil, unruffled by her unorthodoxy, nodded placidly. "The ladies of my home do so as well. Children are a gift and childhood all too short to not be treasured every candlemark. The little one is teething?"

She made a face. "Yes. His molars are coming in and he is growly as a bear with them."

"Poor lad. Have you tried massaging clove oil on his gums?"

"No. Hallas suggested valerian in milk."

A brief frown tugged down the corners of his mouth. The Warden of the Healing Houses was famous for his adherence to tradition. Thorongil for his willingness to abjure it-commending new tactics and ideas that rankled until they met with inevitable victory. It was one of the things she loved about him best: the ease with which he slipped the borders of their staid and settled world.

"Try it," he urged. "I have seen it work."

Had he? And where in his wanderings would such a noble soldier have seen toddlers teething? "You have been around many little children, Captain?"

"I have." A swift and fleeting yearning flashed across his face. "My foster father is a healer."

_Foster_  father? That tidbit was new. "The one whose daughter you would wed?"

This intuition was more guess than Gift, but still Thorongil stiffened, his wary gaze flying to her face. "You know?"

Finduilas looked away a moment and then up again. How could she explain?  _The crown of white about his brow_.  _The bride in new leaf green_.  _The father's pride for both_.

No vision, no gift from Lorien, was certain or written in the music. However much her heart might will it so.

"You spoke of her,' she offered shyly. "On May day, two years ago. I thought…."

She halted as he raised a hand and scanned their little space. The garden was hushed and quiet. Only a drab little finch called forlornly, pecking at the yarrow's seeds. His eyes of mist grew darker and more wistful. "I durst not speak of it. There are thirsty ears everywhere."

_Spies?_  The Steward's or some other? It was far for her to disagree and yet, in Thorongil's proud, stern face Finduilas saw a subtle softening. This man of careful, expert silences; who as deftly turned aside questions as he did a blade of steel,  _needed_  to speak aloud of love.

She placed a soft hand upon his arm. "Here, right now, there are only ears of stone or feather. I would never give up your intelligence."

He shook his head. "A generous and kindly promise, Princess, but I would never burden you so."

"What if I accepted it?" Finduilas' protest was arrow swift. Surely it was not improvident to give hope to one who gave such hope to her? Who laboured so hard to keep her people safe? The injustice burned a moment in her breast, but then she had it. For her, a child of Belfalas Bay, the eve of Metarre was when the presents came. Small, special items with meaning for the recipient. A mark of favour and fortune for the year.

It was fitting she had one for him.

"One day you  _will_  marry and have children of your own, my lord," she said, weighting the words with a ringing certainty. "I know it. I have  _Seen_  it below these stars."

The impassioned outburst fazed him not at all, but still the grey hood shook. "I fear that is neither certain, nor ordained. And a long way in the future, Lady. And there are… difficulties."

She searched his shadowed eyes for truth. "You have looked above your station?"

"Far above. Ludicrously so, and yet.."

"She loves you well."

A sudden smile lit his face like the sun; made of its grave nobleness something so much more. Not merely handsome but shining. Regal. She had to hold her breath. "I believe so," he allowed. "And one day, when my work here is done, she and I shall walk again under starlight and white birch bows."

' _Done_ '. A swift understanding dawned. The South was not his home and would not ever be. Thorongil meant to leave again. Forsake Gondor. The pain of it was sharp like a briar thorn but as nothing next to the grief it would bring Echthelion who loved this man like a son. "You will go back to your people! You will not stay in Minas Tirith. My father-in-law does not see that yet."

"No." Thorongil's reply was heavy with regret. He heaved a sigh and silently clasped her hand. His was warm and strong, and firmly pleading for her to see. "And he must not ever know. Gondor needs victories. And hope to carry it through what shall come."

Hope.  _Estel_. The word her father, Adrahil, whispered to the soft velvet summer night when silver stars streaked from  _Telumehtar_ 's belt. It frayed, like a ship's sail used too much, with every empty house shut up; with each family left without an heir.

_We are too few and his strong arm all too very necessary_.

She laced her fingers tightly with his own; caught the dark gaze once more and with her other hand tapped the little book where it lay safe and hidden. "Then we shall both have several secrets between us, Captain."

Thorongil laughed. Free and unfettered and the sound made her heart leap with joy. Like turquoise and silver dew and ochre red swirled in eddies on unbleached cloth.

"That we shall. Finduilas of Dol Amroth. That we shall."

,

~~~000~~~

.

_T.A. 2996_

_._

"Fara, come now. You will hurt your neck sleeping drooped like that."

The Steward's youngest son groaned and rubbed a pair of puffy, blinking owl eyes. pushed up from his improbable perch across the couch's arm. "What time is it? Am I too late?" he asked, heart hammering in his chest. He had not meant to fall asleep but somehow his lids had closed, been too weighted down with waiting, and now the night watch at the Mettare flame would be long past.

Father would be furious. Perhaps he could take next watch? Perhaps Boromir would explain…? "Have I missed my turn?"

"Nay, little one." His brother crouched down beside, raised a hand to brush a dark, sleep-damp lock from off his brow, pulled a warm throw across his lap when Faramir shivered unhappily. The fire had gone out. The air was damp with chill and he (nose in a most brilliantly entrancing book) had failed to bank it for the night. "I took watch for you. Father did not notice for Uncle kept him busy with tariffs or taxes or something boring that starts with 'T'." Boromir's crooked grin flashed as he reached to gently shake one thin and wiry shoulder. "I think he felt guilty he wore you out."

"Trade," Faramir corrected quietly, feeling slightly pricked in his fawn-wobbly, new found sense of warrior pride. "Grandfather wants to charge more for berths at port and Father is dead against it." He stretched and just barely concealed a startled wince. "'Tis late is all. I could have sparred still more."

"If you say so." Boromir, sagely, forebore to disagree. His elder brother turned his broad back, knelt at the fire grate and swiftly struck a spark, set tinder to fresh fuel and coaxed a steady flame, whistling a light, bright tune. It and the 'impromptu' sparring match with their beloved Uncle Imrahil, the new book of Belfalas poetry and engraved horn knife, were all designed to keep Faramir occupied. Help pass the long hours before the holiday they could not help but dread.

He  _was_  grateful. He was. But just this once the boy wished  _he_  could be the one to do the caring.

Boromir's memories of their Mother's last Mettare eve were sharper. And more painful for it.

"Did I miss the party?"

"Not entirely." A laden wicker basket draped in white landed with a thud upon the low wood table. "I brought the best of Airlen's honeycakes."

"Oh, and marzipan!" Boromir claimed an amber bottle of new ale and pulled up an ottoman while Faramir, thirteen and always hungry now, took out the precious knife and carefully sliced the almond treat in half. Marzipan was his favourite. He tried not to wolf it down, savouring each moist and sticky bite, happily anticipating the traditional star-shaped and sweetly spiced cakes below. Gondor and Rohan might honour the Sun's return with feasts and gifts on the solstice day itself, but the Steward's household did as their Lady had-celebrated on Mettare Eve.

"There might be packages below the cakes," remarked Boromir drily over the bottle's rim, chuckling when the fodder was set swiftly down. Below the modest feast lay a few small parcels-illicit goods in a household decreed not to celebrate for itself. There was a drawing set from their nurse, Nera; a new feadan from Cahill the Seneschal and the household guards.  _Valar_ , such perfect gifts!

So engrossed was Faramir in trying out the wood flute's tone that at first he did not notice the unusual item below his brother's hawkish nose.

_A book?!_  Lieutenant Boromir of the White Tower Guard was  _reading_?! For pleasure of an evening? His brother sat, slouched forward, elbows on knees, entirely absorbed by a small blue leather volume.

Faramir blinked and but still the image did not disappear. "What is that?" he asked around a too-large mouthful of honeycake.

Unaccountably his brother flushed. "'Tis not what you think."

" _So, not_  the secret cellar list from the Kine?"

He was fondly cuffed upside the head. "Imp." Boromir slowly pulled a small brass key from inside his black dress tunic pocket, set it, winking dully in the warm firelight and pale candle-glow, beside the basket. _"_ It is my gift from Nera. Mother's diaries. _"_

"Really!?" The feadan landed hastily but gently on a damask cushion.

Boromir, one black brow raised, peered closely at a page of neat Tengwar. "She kept them. Nera. Each and every one. From first to last." He tapped a polished dark wood box Faramir had not noticed at his feet. It looked old: the wood worn and white where fingers touched the lid; the lock tarnished and worked in leaping dolphins. "Sixteen in all. Safely under lock and key. And dusted every month."

"Safe?" Faramir echoed faintly in surprise.  _From whom? Their father?_  Surely Denethor would not have desecrated a single page?! He reached down and lifted the heavy lid, ran thin fingers lightly along pale blue leather spines, swiftly counting. Sixteen. An odd number. He scanned the date on the one Boromir held aloft and did the math swiftly in his head.  _2959_.  _Mother would have been nine years old_. A girl. Gay and lively and running freely through the apricot-scented trees.

"But they end….?"

"Just after you were born." Boromir's face grew briefly bleak as Mindolluin's winter slopes. "She was too tired most eves to write."

_Or paint._ Most of the sun-drenched canvases, the lively, jewel- bright tapestries, were made before. By a Captain's, not a Steward's, wife. To fill their home and the long lonely hours with all the colours that she missed.

With an effort Faramir sloughed off a rush of sad wistfulness and looked down at the childish, scrawling script below his brother's fingertips. "May I see?"

Boromir shrugged and passed it by.

" _Rini's wolfhound growled at the cook again_.  _Ada says he must sleep in the stable block a fortnight_   _but I am sure she will sneak him out_."

The stiff pages rustled as Faramir turned them one by one; day after day. All the trials and tribulations of a boisterous and happy childhood. Notes and sketches and snippets of Sindarin and Quenya verse. On one page in faded gold sand and rocky grey was a little cove he recognized as Boromir's favourite southern trysting spot. On another was sketched a perfect coiled flat shell. Pink and mottled cream and faithful red splotches of coral algae.

He slipped the precious volume into the box and pulled another out. "Will you read them all?" he asked, wonderingly. Here was a chance to know her—truly. A gift unlooked for and a treasure beyond price: for him his brother was the keeper of his Mother's memories; a source of light and colour for the image kept frozen by the rime of their Father's grief.

No answer came. His brother's face was closed and set, brows furrowed in deep thought, torn by what to say. Why should Boromir hesitate? His usual exuberant self would burst with pride to show Mother's talent off—her tapestries and sketches, watercolours and riotous embroidery. Writing was something new! Her fine art skill they knew—it was the one that her eldest shared; though Boromir's stayed well hidden in the much hated schoolwork books. Somewhere in his spartan, ordered room were intricately fearsome Orcs and bulging Trolls waging a running battle with Swan Knights and Tower Guards around half finished sums and mulishly copied verse.

Faramir glanced down at the diary that lay light, but weighty with promise, in his hands.  _2980_  was stamped in silver on a more faded blue; page after page of neatly metered verse, and on one loose sheaf, water stains as if sprinkled by a fountain's spray. "I could help you with the Quenya," he offered, wondering if that was what put his brother off.

"Nay, lad." Boromir sighed unhappily. "I …I am more afraid at what lies in the later years." The furrow in his brow deepened to a trough. "Where she had loved so much before… she came to..."

_Despise_. Nera's honesty on that score had ever pained his brother. Boromir loved Father and Mother both with a heart built of earth-deep loyalty. To hear them bicker with each other, even secondhand, was too hard. But for Faramir -whose memories beyond the sweet scent of jasmine, hazy images of dark, sad beauty and tired smiles, were few- it was so tempting.

_But my brother is the bravest man I know. If he can not…._

He swallowed hard.  _"_ I understand. They were both so good to you, but not always to each other." He stood, slipped the first diary to its silent waiting spot, intending to close the lid when a large warm hand stilled on his. Boromir had risen. Stood, proud face eased somewhat of care and eyes heavy with emotion.

Slowly he turned up Faramir's smaller palm and set down the little key. "May Arien guide the Daystar true and the Light of Laurelin's last fruit smile upon you in the coming year."

Faramir stared at his brother, astonished. The ritual words of gifting had already been said once that eve. He to his brother when he shyly passed a carved wood drinking cup. Boromir when he gifted the handsome knife. "But you already gave me a Metarre gift?!"

Boromir smiled wanly and, at last, a little brightness spilled into the sombre onyx of his gaze. "I did," he nodded, "and another is just your due."

He leaned forward to clasp his little brother's neck, pull Faramir close and touch their brows; folding the young slim fingers around the worn old brass.

"I have my memories. I need no other secrets."

.

~~~000~~~

.

_Fo A 011_

"Come, love, it is time for bed."

"But Mama, I'm not tired."

The sleepy mumble was not quite convincing, the effort to knuckle open bleary eyes still less so. Faramir smiled up at his wife as she reached down to the couch's littlest occupant. It was far from the first time they'd heard that plea.

"Mettare will come quicker this way Théomund," insisted Éowyn, pulling up a limp, drowsy, little boy. "The sooner you sleep, the sooner the day is here."

Their youngest shook his head, drooped unhelpfully for a moment before giving up and swiftly wrapping arms and legs around her. "S'good."

"It is. Say goodnight to everyone."

"Night, Ada. Night Fin. Night "Bron."

"Sleep well Théo." The chorus of wishes from his distracted elder siblings was faint, but his father's kiss was firm and warm. Faramir sat back, laid aside the finished picture book and smiled ruefully to himself, imaging the sudden burst of energy, the dogged requests for more that would come from warm boy meeting cool and tidy sheets. Éowyn might need rescuing. But perhaps not too very soon. There were two more children draped about the cozy, pine- and clove-scented warmth of the Steward's palace sitting room.

His daughter Finduilas, cat-like and dark and lithe, was curled into the far corner of the couch with an open book across her lap. His eldest, Elboron, was strewn haphazardly across the hearth rug, doodling in the margins of his notes. The boy's pose of alert attentiveness was only marred a little by a reluctant shift and quickly stifled wince—he and Eldarion had spent the day with the Tower Guard and Lord Elrohir. Hours of sword and sparring practice, with an opponent far more intriguing than just a King. Faramir smiled, remembering his younger self pleased and proud to have gone two rounds with Imrahil and three with Boromir. Sore and stiff but refusing to give up, gingerly hiding welts in the aftermath.

He looked fondly on a short blond braid and tawny skin and thought: a _t least there is something of me in my son_.

The room settled into a hushed and expectant quiet marred only by a most unwelcome rattle of sleet across the windowpanes. Aragorn's ceremony about the Fountain Court might prove to be a trial if the weather did not improve. Especially for restless children doing their best to stand patiently and respectfully before Minas Tirith's throng.

Faramir turned back to his almost fully drafted speech, quill poised midair like a hunting bird aloft searching for hidden prey. He was trying to get the flow just right but it was proving futile. How many metaphors for light and happiness were there? Was 'lambent' a little stuffy? Had he used 'radiant' too many times before? He sighed and then, just as a spark popped in the firegrate, there came a massive yawn.

"Ada."

"Yes, Elboron?"

"I might turn in."

"An eminently sensible idea."

The boy rolled stiffly to his feet. Finduilas, a hands-breadth away, kept her nose buried into her book. They were not fighting-not as such-but neither were they overtly recognizing each other on this day. The Crown Prince of the Reunited Realms and the Steward's Heir might be 'stout enough' to train with seasoned warriors but they were not yet beyond the sort of high-spirited, childish pranks that vexed their little sisters.

_(Slugs_.  _In sewing baskets_. Messy and revolting and garnering exactly the reaction the lads had hoped.)

Faramir eyed the proudly purple bruise on Bron's arm. A gentle reminder would not go amiss.

"Have you forgotten something lad?"

A pair of blond brows crashed together though the words were warm enough. "Goodnight Fin."

From behind the book there came a glacially grudging 'night'. He let it go and accepted his eldest's swift sure hug. "Sleep well."

With Elboron out the door, Faramir did his best to concentrate but the raven-dark, exaggeratedly still, creature to his left took up too much of his Ranger's tracking skills. Fin was alternating between still watchfulness and surreptitious wriggling; inching closer with each moment as near as she could get to Éowyn 's prized Yule tree; frowning at the nearly empty space below its scented boughs. He knew a looming question when he saw it. ' _Could I not open one?_ ' " _Why must we celebrate tomorrow when Great Uncle does tonight_?"

His daughter was graced with intellect and impatience. A dizzying combination that had finally necessitated hiding all her and Bron and Theo's presents in Aragorn's immaculate and sacrosanct study.

Perhaps best to hold the query off.

"Finduilas?"

"Ada?"

"Are you tired?"

"Nay."

Of course not. Why would his brilliant, absorbed and absorbing middle child ever want to sleep? He set his paper aside, thinking of the squalling, impatient, all too awake babe she'd been, suddenly missing his 'sugar plum' in the poised young girl who sat, a line between her brows and wrinkle to her elfin nose. The beauty she would be was just a little blurred by baby fat, but her long dark hair was glorious. Sleek and fine and to her mind stubbornly all too straight—it braided beautifully but would never curl as her mother's did.

One slippered foot was jiggling, positively vibrating with pent up energy. A question  _was_  soon to come. The father braced himself for an impassioned defense of new-old traditions, but what burst out was…

"What was Grandmother really like?"

Faramir's heart thudded to a stop. Why that question? And why tonight? They had lit a candle for his mother and all their missing family the day before, ere they came to Minas Tirith. Finduilas had heard many times the legend of his mother's life oft repeated about the City: that the Old Steward's dainty, fragile beauty of a wife withered on Minas Tirith's stern, hard rock. That she'd been dismayed by growing Shadow. It was a recasting rued by her remaining siblings who knew there had been steel beneath the shine. All of Adrahil's children were strong and fearless with it. Faramir hesitated, watching Finduilas' grey glinting eyes. All their three knew the bare bones of their grandparents' lives. And ends. That Denethor had lost his wits to the Enemy's insidious half-truths; that Finduilas had lingered years with an illness that sapped her strength.

A better truer answer of her personality would come from Imrahil or Ivriniel. Even Aragorn if it came to that for Thorongil had once known her well. Finduilas of Dol Amroth was for him a first sadness and a sustaining hope; that last Metarre long ago fuzzy and indistinct, like a windowpane streaked with drops. He remembered leaden legs and tired feet. Endless walking behind a bier and his father's admonition to not falter. The feel of Boromir's arms about his waist when he, just five and near asleep upon his feet, would have crumpled to the cobblestones. And then, quixotically, the smell of citron: Father's freshly barbered face when he had lifted both his sons. Metarre's previous painful memories had years ago been replaced by joy. Éowyn's news of Elboron's beginning. Light and laughter and fresh pine and Rohirric sweet Yule breads. Excited little faces watching the candles blaze.

Faramir paused. A proper answer would not be swift, but a decision was quickly made.

"Shift over, plum." He rose and settled down upon the couch, laid an arm about his daughter's shoulders, watching her carefully close the book and mark her place. "What did you wish to know?"

"I know what Nera says."

_Does she now?_  Their housekeeper was a strong and loving woman—possessed of long honed opinions that habitually she kept mostly to herself. "And what does Nera say?"

"That Grandmother was the most beautiful woman who ever wore the circlet. That she was good and kind and generous. A perfect hostess. Skilled in diplomacy and very patient. That she loved Metarre so very much she made it better than any now."

_Ah_. Nera adored her former mistress and time and grief had only polished the image more. Faramir felt a pang of sympathy. Sometimes names could be a burden, and though he did not ascribe to them as destiny (he most certainly did not die defying his father unlike Faramir the First), he had wondered how his grandfather came to name his raven-haired middle daughter for a golden, doomed princess of Nargothrond? Blessing his own little princess with that name had been pure instinct. He and Éowyn had had a pact: after Elboron a boy was to be named by her, a girl by him. 'Finduilas' had tripped off his tongue the moment she opened her tiny, ink dark eyes, and now, looking down on the young girl nestled close, he realized she was very much his mother in miniature. In focus and form the woman he knew from her diaries. Impulsive. Intuitive. Intense. Loving with abandon. Enchanted and furious by turns.

All the features that had entranced a sober, bookish Steward's son.

What should he say to alay the sense of burden?

"She did love Metarre," he began, clasping a small, thin hand in his. "I remember candles everywhere. That we had to be careful not to knock them down. Huw yelping once when singed. "

"Was he hurt?" asked Fin anxiously, for she loved dogs and cats-all animals actually, and most especially the long line of smart white-mice that were hers to feed.

"Not at all.'

Pale grey eyes so like his own lightened before they swiftly dimmed again. "No one can be so perfect."

"No." He dropped her hand and reached to tweak a narrow chin. "Except you."

"Ada!"  _Oh the frustration of teasing parents._  His daughter huffed, shook her dark head and graced him with a searingly impatient frown.

The laugh that threatened to bubble up had to be ruthlessly suppressed before he could begin again.

"I remember only snippets Fin. Her hands were warm before they were always cold. Her voice was faint but lilting. She loved to laugh and play hide and seek with Boromir, even from her chair. And almost always she came, not Nera, when the great Wave woke me up."

Finduilas' eyes grew round and wide. Alone of his children she was the one to know that dream; was caught betimes in its cold green grip and clung to him, shivering, when he came to hold her in the night.

He rubbed a little present day, easy warmth and reassurance into her arm. The dream was an inheritance passed down each Dol Amroth generation from Galador the First. Elphir's Alphros had it. And Elfwine through Lothiriel. A hallmark of their common heritage, like fine fingers and narrow brows.

"To really know her you must see her work," he said, tucking a stray strand of ebony back behind an ear.

"Her tapestries?" said Fin, looking up. Boromir's favourite, all pink-gold dawn and green wave and rocky strand, hung in pride of place above the hearth.

He nodded. "And pictures. And gardens. She painted in any palette that came her way. Soft wool. Thick paint. Green and growing things. When the urge to capture something came she could not hold it back. Mother even learned the dying of her weaving wools."

"Oh yes." FInduilas wrinkled her nose and giggled gaily. "Nera says sometimes her fingers were very blue."

He chuckled. Not just any blue, the rare deep indigo that Adrahil sourced from Khand. "So I understand. She lived and loved in equal measure. Intensely. Deeply. I think it came from her Dol Amroth gift. Her foresight. Uncle Imrahil says it gave her hope."

_And some of us_. Faramir, not wishing to delve too far  _there_  yet, paused, casting about his memory for other tidbits his eloquent and impassioned little girl might appreciate. "She also painted with pretty words."

"Really?!" This was new. He could see FInduilas happily roll the idea around in her head, giving it its due. "Like me?"

"Yes, plum." Faramir let go a thin shoulder, heaved up and padded across the soft wool carpet; unerringly making for a spot in the vast bookcase. The box of blue notebooks stood high up on a shelf; unlocked and not fettered by a key but also not free for all to see. He reached in and took down his favourite. Stained with splotches of thick bright paint; with fingerprints of seablue ink. And holding a folded parchment sheaf.

He carefully slid the faded letter out, pried the edges open and softly began to read.

_"If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could paint a garden all the colours of the world."_

….

Hours later, the candles had hissed and guttered low, the logs crumbled into embers when his lovely wife appeared around the door.

Éowyn's heavy golden braid was mussed from sharing Theo's bed. She had a pillow's crease upon her cheek and a fondly exasperated look upon her face. "Why are you still up, young lady?"

"Ada and I were talking."

"Which you could both do for hours given half the chance." An insistent finger beckoned to their daughter. "Time for bed."

Finduilas, although graced with bags as big as fletts below her eyes, would never admit to so boring a failing as fatigue.

She groaned theatrically. "Mother, do I have too?"

"Yes.  _You_  may wish to follow Earendil's star throughout the night. Your Father and I do not."

"Yes, love. It is very late and I must rise early for my duties in the morn." Faramir bent and swiftly kissed the top of his daughter's head, thinking ' _Please Este, let there be no scene'_. For a small, slight thing, her heels could dig in very far.

A heavy pause ensued. Finduilas frowned, thoughtfully twinning a strand of hair about her finger in unconscious (and almost perfect) imitation of her mother, as if obeying was a choice. At last she sighed. And reluctantly arose.

"Good night, Ada."

Goodnight, Fin. Sleep well."

Mother and daughter slipped out into the hall and Faramir once more sought the bookcase, was about to place the little blue volume back in its waiting space when a skein of memory tugged hard.

_The lush, tooth cracking sweetness of marzipan. The heady musk of malted hops. The warmth of brass next to his skin._

He looked down below the tree's green-gold boughs to the other parcels waiting there. Fin's perfect wrapping for her brothers. Bron's careful tidy efforts. Theo's messes of ribbon and sticky glue. On the morrow he would bring the children's presents down and there would be a modest, happily demolished, pile.

Perhaps one extra would not go amiss.  
.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is Annafan's belated Christmas gift, expanded to fit with Teitho's Curiosity theme at the last minute when it looked as if there would be few submissions, and I appreciate her patience in waiting for it! I am honoured that it has been voted first, especially with such great company. The Quenya words are from Ambar Eldaron. The eagle-eyed Tennyson enthusiast among you (*cough* Altariel) will recognize the first half of Finduilas' line of poetry from him. This fits with the Hurin Family drabbles but is rather longer so have posted it separately (short Sian, short! Right. Happy Faramir is just too much fun to write).
> 
> Check out the next Teitho challenge: 'Point of View' due the end of February! and come find me as Sian22redux on tumblr


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